


death had undone

by 222Ravens



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossroad Deals, Crowley knows everything, Demons, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/222Ravens/pseuds/222Ravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John attempts to make a deal, and it doesn't exactly go the way he was expecting, in a very good way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death had undone

 

"Dr. John Watson, formerly of the fifth Northumberland fusilier, formerly pet blogger to poor disgraced Sherlock Holmes. What can I do for you?" The demon drawled, pulling hands out of his pockets to give a cheery wave.

 

John's own hands were completely steady, one clutching his cane. That damn bike messenger that knocked him down, _when_ … Must have re-injured the leg. Probably psychosomatic, really. Didn’t matter. None of it did.

 

The other hand was clutching a spray bottle full of holy water. It a small precaution, but better than nothing. He knew he was out of his depth here, but he also didn’t much care.

 

Still… He wasn't sure what he was expecting exactly. Maybe nothing at all, but probably not a relatively short, droll sort of man in a neat black suit.

 

The two figures were standing on a dark road in the countryside, as short a distance from London as John could get in order to find the appropriate “dirt road at a major crossroads” criteria for what he was doing. 

 

He would need to work relatively quickly, however, if this was going to take place without interruptions. He was almost completely certain Mycroft was still monitoring him. Possibly someone else as well, but it didn’t matter. From what he’d read, all it took was a verbal agreement. It would be too late even if Mycroft did send someone to stop him. No turning around from this one.

 

“I was expecting a bit more brimstone, less… funeral director, or whatever that is.” 

 

The demon shrugged. "What can I say? Modern audiences. You should see what I've done with Hell. Actually, no, won't give anything away, why ruin the surprise? Still, very calm for a man about to bargain his soul away. _Soldiers,_ I ask you.” 

 

John laughs at that, humourlessly,  “Well, you aren’t very threatening. I know how this works. You won't hurt me until you have what you want, and I have what I’m looking for. Not good for business if you go around killing people who want to do a trade or a bargain or whatever it is you call it. A... Contract?”

 

The demon grinned, actually _grinned_. That, John would admit, was disconcerting, the sort of grin that he’d last seen on... "Well… aren't you a clever clogs, little John. So self-sacrificing. So what's it going to be? You'll get ten years to enjoy it, so make it good."

 

"I want you to bring Sherlock back from the dead, and… Do whatever is necessary to clear his name. I’ve got the recording from his phone, if it helps with that part, but even if you don’t want to do that part… The first bit would be fine.”

 

Crowley raised his eyebrows, taking a step forwards with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

 

“How sweet. Want your little lover boy around? Oh, no, he wasn’t that, not yet… Never told him, is that it?”

 

John grimaced. "It's not… Not like that. He's a… was a friend. My best friend. That’s…”

 

"Some friend.”

 

That drew a chuckle that managed to retain a small semblance of humour to it.

 

“Oh, god… No. Nope, I’m not doing this, not now, not with a bloody _demon_! I never… I didn’t…” John trailed off, turns halfway as if to leave, then back again, his face flat.

 

“It obviously doesn’t actually… If this works, I’ll… Look, can we get on with this?”

 

The demon still seemed overly amused by something, like he knew something John didn’t, something beyond the ‘ _yup, obviously gay’_ face that he was used to getting by now, whether that statement was true or not. 

 

It was a face that he… “It’s really almost disgustingly sentimental, of you. I was expecting better. Well, no, that’s a lie. Sadly, it’s _exactly_ what I was expected. Don’t know why I bothered to show up at all. Other than it’s nice to get out of ruddy America every so often.”

 

"What's it going to be, Crowley?" John asked, impatient.

 

"Ohhh, so you know my name, do you? How charming. You’ve got good sources, mate. So you probably also know I'm the King of Hell, and much as I'm always on the lookout to add to my little population, I'm afraid the deal's off. No can do, Johnny boy.”

 

John’s face drained of what little colour it had remaining in the dimness. 

 

“Say that again?"

 

"Deal's off. Well, never was on, technically. Can't give you what you want, much as I'd like to get my hands on your soul… It's an awfully pretty one. Very bright. I could only fulfill half of that request, and I don’t do anything by half.”

 

John breathes out, centering himself. He looks down at the spot in crossroad where the box is buried, then back to staring down the demon, whose eyes flashed red with interest. 

 

“I’ll take less than ten years. You can do that, can't you? Take a smaller time?" John said, clenching his fists. This had to work. It had to. _God, please let this work._ (Worry later about the irony of praying to God that a deal with the devil works out.) 

 

"Damn it, nine years, eight years, it's enough, it's all just… just borrowed time, anyway. I wouldn’t… I doubt I’d even be alive now if not for him. Add the year and a half that I knew him, and… Eight years would be plenty of time. It’s that or… He only jumped because of me. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but it’s… I need to fix this.”

 

Crowley sighed in turn, but suddenly he was grinning again, a smile that was half spider, half snake. 

 

"Honestly, even walking away without a soul, I'm feeling pretty chipper. Broken hearts are so _cute_. Unless you still want me to clear his name? Because I can do that bit. Even go for the full ten years. But otherwise… No. Oh, this really is _hilarious_.”

 

"What do you mean?" 

 

"Do I really have to spell it out for you? Why are all the noble ones so _thick,_ I ask you _?"_

 

 _"_ Crowley." John said, flatly, almost as a warning, surreptitiously tightening his grip on the spray bottle.

 

The demon raised his hands in mock surrender,  "Fine, fine, no need to be so hasty with the weaponry. Though, honestly, a spray bottle? Let's put it this way. I can't bring your boyfriend back to life, because he isn't dead. There, I said it, satisfied?" 

 

There was a small sound as the aforementioned spray bottle slipped out of numb fingers and bounced onto the road, the top coming off and the water puddling, then soaking quickly into the ground. John idly wondering if that wouldn’t somehow interrupt the ritual, but it seemed to be fine for now. He had bigger thing to think about, like...

 

"That's not possible." 

 

 _No._ It couldn’t be. Not… He would have said something, let him know, somehow, he was so bloody clever…

 

_It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me._

 

_Just a magic trick._

 

"Oh yeah? Think about it. He had to jump so the snipers didn't get you, yeah? Had to look like he died, and who better to reinforce the illusion than his best friend's grief? Of course you couldn't know, but answer me this. Did you actually see him hit the ground, or not?"

 

John's mouth works at length before he can speak. "Of course I…" 

 

_Stay where you are._

 

_Keep your eyes fixed on me._

 

He trails off, eyes widening. “Why would you tell me this?”

 

"Finally! He figures it out.” Crowley drawled. “And yes, demons lie, all that, it could be wrong, could be I’m just making it all up to mess with you… But if that was the case, why would I tell you? I’m not doing a deal with you when I know you’ve already got what you’re asking for. Honestly, I do have some small measure of integrity, believe it or not. I deal in _souls_ , not insurance policies or anything _really_ unsavoury.”

 

“Mmm… Going with not.” John says in a way that Crowley thinks is probably intended as flippantly, but he is too shaken for it to come across well.

 

_Friends protect people._

 

The demon sighs. “Look. Jim Moriarity? I’m hoping you do at least know that he’s dead?”

 

John nods shakily. “Mycroft told me. Yes.”

 

“Ahhh, Mycroft Holmes. Lovely man. Been trying for years to get a hold of that delightful little soul, but he never does go for it. Quite a pity, really. Point is, little Jimmy pulled that trigger for a very specific reason. His time was all up, poor lad.”

 

John clutches onto that, anything else to think about, talk about, because _Christ…_

 

“Hang on, Moriarity made a crossroads deal?”

 

“Oh yes. Long time ago. Just when I was just starting out as a crossroads demon, got transferred from Apocalypse detail after a little incident in 1990 with… How do you think someone so patently unstable got to be such a powerful criminal mastermind? And the mythical key code? Please. _Demons_.  So, may not have yours, or even Sherlock’s, but Moriarity will barely even need any torturing at all to get his little Hell promotion to demon-hood. Saves a lot of work on my end, trust me, so I’m in a good mood, here. His is the best soul I’ve gotten in _ages_.”

 

He stretches, glancing at a passing lorry driver with calculated disinerest, and remarks, “Now, must be off, have fun tracking your friend down. Do let me know if you come up with anything else you want. You're kind of cute, for an embarrassingly thickheaded, overly self-sacrificing _human._ At least give Sherlock a kiss for me, will you? Until next time, Johnny boy.”

 

Watson opens his mouth to say something, but the demon is gone, just like that, and John is standing at the crossroads alone. 

 

Several long minutes go by.

 

A few more minute pass, and he continues to stand there, silently, hands steady, back straight. Finally, with calm hands, he chucks his cane down, and bends to dig up the box. Once he has replaced the gravel and dirt, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, and dials a number.

 

"Mycroft? No, Anthea, I won’t wait. Put him on the phone.”

 

He waits another minute, then three. Finally. "Yes. Mycroft. Time to talk. Send a car, I'm sure you can work out my location all by yourself. Won’t be long, I’m sure you’re already following me, so it won’t take much time… I’ve got some information you’ll be wanting to hear, I think. I won't say it over the phone. Though, will ask you this. Does the name Crowley ring any bells? It does. Right. Understand why talking might be good? ”

 

John hangs up, dusts off his hands, and smiles, actually, honest to God _smiles,_ for the first time in months. He’s tempted, out of some bizarre combination of grief, anger, and relief, to start sobbing, but he doesn’t.

 

By the time the sleek black car arrives, he is certain of it.

 

Sherlock is _alive_.

 

And that's _more_ than enough to be getting on with.


End file.
